Friday, 3 January 2014

Melodious liquid warble in the plumTree tells the sinking year how to feelIts recession into grief as if a thornPoked a nester in an old wounded heartOf stone from which slowly drips recognitionAll breathing passion far aboveThese days atonal as white noiseThrough bare branches cotton clouds drift byLast yellowed leaves catch lone rays of sunGoing down into the motherless oceanA light plane buzzes off toward brown hillsAs shade drops over the next urban plotTo prepare the air for what the dead don’t knowHow swiftly we are coming to join them

Nin really speaks my mind here. It's wonderful to be reminded again of Gile, whom I first learned about here. Atonal/tonal has been on my mind this morning. Also, since our snowstorm last night, white noise. Curtis

First time I've seen the paintings. A great urge to see them in the flesh (that seems a very apposite word). Always a joy to trace the work in a work. I could eat that paint up and leave the canvas clean.

Though obviously Selden Gile was aware of French painting and in particular Impressionism and able make use of its discoveries, it's the fact he brought those methods "back home" to this neck of the woods, and to landscapes as familiar to the eye of one living here over time as, say, the landscapes of France must have been to those inhabiting the "country" of Corot or Van Gogh, that makes him of great interest to me.

That delicious thick agitated impasto of his deserves seeing up close, it seemed to me.